


A Nice Girl

by cryptaknight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptaknight/pseuds/cryptaknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie Weasley doesn't enjoy working with Pansy Parkinson- at all- but he finds a way to make peace with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Nice Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Aside from the usual disclaimers, this fic was originally written with the LJ exchange, 15 Pairings, in mind, with the prompt "Shut up and listen." It grew into a gift fic.

She was haranguing him again. This time, the subject of her ire was one of the thestrals, which had gotten loose and had the temerity to relieve himself. Charlie hadn't gotten to the shit in time, and it had soiled the bottom of what he gathered was a rather expensive shoe.

Times like this, Charlie really regretted giving in to his mum's pleas to stay in the UK after the war.

She'd been very convincing- Charlie was a sucker for his mother's tears, after all- and then there was Fred, which had gutted the whole family, and Harry had proposed to Ginny and his mum was all aflutter about that, and well... he'd found himself once again in the bosom of his family after many years of self-sufficiency. Oh, he loved his family. That was part and parcel of being a Weasley, really. But there was no denying that being surrounded by all of them again had been quite an adjustment for him, nor that he had begun to miss his dragons after he'd had some time to settle in. Suddenly having his mother privy to most of his business had perhaps been the biggest adjustment of all. Once the mourning had lessened, and life had begun to take on a semblance of normalcy once more, Molly's attention had drifted to him, and her focus had sharpened.

 _Charlie, don't you think that hair is getting a bit long? You're starting to look more and more like Bill._

 _Charlie, why don't you bring any girls home to meet your old mum? You need a nice girl, not these tarty types you play about with._

 _Charlie, the gnomes are at the garden again. I thought I asked you to take care of that?_

 _Charlie, those shoes look ragged. I don't know how you stand them._

And on and on. Molly meant well, but she just couldn't help being a mum. It was what she was best at.

Still, it had been with some relief that Charlie had read the owl from Professor McGonagall, Hogwarts' new headmistress. Rubeus Hagrid had vacated his position, gone to work for the still rebuilding Ministry in Giant Relations. McGonagall offered Charlie his position, both as Keeper of Keys and Grounds and Care of Magical Creatures instructor, which she felt would be suited to his unique skill set. Charlie accepted at once, reckoning he couldn't muck it up too badly, and thought it was a fitting compromise- he was still in the UK, but felt a lot less smothered.

He been right. He'd fit in smashingly, finding the various creatures housed at Hogwarts some solace for the dragon-shaped hole in his heart, and he'd discovered he rather enjoyed teaching the young students about the animals they shared a world with. He'd moved into what had formerly been Hagrid's hut, reveling in the privacy it afforded. Best of all, he'd found a few accommodating witches in Hogsmeade that were eager to aid in making his stay comfortable.

He hadn't really considered the fact that the positions of Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions instructors were also up for grabs, nor who might fill those positions. The Dark Arts postion, as it turned out, had been filled by a Rolf Scamander, who Charlie got on crashingly well with, given who his father was. The Potions position, however, had been offered to someone who had found herself a victim of the war, financially and socially at least, and whom Charlie had discovered he didn't get on well with at all.

Pansy Parkinson. Who was also currently giving him what could only be termed a tongue lashing, although this was hardly an unusual state of affairs, as Charlie had quickly realised. The girl was always hacked off about something, whether it was the quality of service from the house elves, the still dodgy parts of the castle that had been hastily restored after the final battle, or the food served at mealtimes. She was most often hacked off at Charlie, though, because somehow in her mind most of this was his job- he grew the veg, he looked after the animals that, according to her, left the grounds in an unacceptable state, he was the handyman who did spot fixes until experts could be called, and, he suspected, he existed and thus provided her with a convenient target for her never-ending supply of wrath.

"Sorry about that, Parkinson," he said tiredly, giving her the stone face and blank tone that seemed the only defense against her tirades.

"It's _Professor_ Parkinson, I'll remind you. And you ought to be. These shoes were custom made for me, and they're completely ruined," she snapped, undeterred.

He was tempted to point out that if the shoes were that valuable, perhaps she shouldn't have been traipsing around the school grounds, still recovering from the damage done during the war, in them. He'd learned, however, that there was little point in trying to talk logic to Parkinson when her dander was up. Arguing only seemed to stoke the fire of discontent that seemed always burning in her. Instead, he stood implacably silent, waiting for her to spin off in a huff, like she normally did. As he'd hoped, his stoicness was rewarded with her predictable flounce, although she did call over her shoulder that she'd be sending him the bill for her shoe repair.

 _Drama queen,_ he thought with a snort, returning to his work.

That night at dinner, Headmistress McGonagall handed out the next week's patrol assignments. Given that there were still some weak spots in the castle's defences undergoing repair by Ministry workers, instructors were assigned monitor duties alongside the prefects for increased safety. Charlie had to stifle a groan as he unrolled the slip of parchment. _Monday-Wednesday-Friday, 10:00 PM- 6:00 AM, Prof C. Weasley and Prof P. Parkinson,_ it read. The gods were truly unkind. He cast a sidelong glance over at Parkinson, to see how she'd taken the assignment. Would she be gleeful at the notion of eight hours of nagging at him, thrice in one week, or would she be as dismayed as he was? Her lips were set in a tight little line, her eyes glued to the paper as if willing it to say something else. Unhappy, then, Charlie supposed. It was small consolation. He couldn't imagine that their shifts would be in any way pleasant.

Once the students were in their dormitories for the night, Charlie decided to go drown his sorrows in a pint of ale and the willing arms of one of the bar maids at the Three Broomsticks. Ale came first; once his mood was improved through alcohol, he followed the lovely Fiona upstairs to her room above the pub, and set about further improving his mood through even more pleasant means.

Afterward, feeling considerably more relaxed, he leaned back into the fluffy pillows on Fiona's bed, and poured his troubles out to the curvaceous woman tucked against him. Fiona was just the sort of girl he liked- easy going, warm, not the sort to pester a bloke for attention but always glad to spend some time with him, never harsh or shrill, and only argumentative with sots who got a bit too fresh when she brought them their drinks. Not at all like the horrible Parkinson, who resembled nothing so much as a harpy, always bleating at him.

He was a bit surprised when Fiona voiced her sympathy for Parkinson. "I don't know, Charlie, I feel a bit sorry for the girl. She's one of those society types, isn't she?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, his lip curling. He had little use for the 'society types', as Fiona put it. Malfoys and Parkinsons and Greengrasses and the rest of them. They'd always held themselves apart from the rest of the wizarding world on the basis of blood and Galleons. Then, after the war, they'd wanted to carry on like they hadn't been larking about with Death Eaters and playing at that sham of a Ministry. Some, like the Parkinsons, had lost a good deal of money as the regimes changed, which in turn had lowered their societal standing, as well. Charlie couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for them at all. He figured turn about was fair play, and now the snobs could get a taste of what they'd dished out all those years. Of course, some families had kept their hands clean and come through just fine. Others struggled to polish up their sullied names. It all made no matter to Charlie. Pureblood games were a sport he paid little attention to and wanted no part of.

"Must be hard for her to feel she fits in with the rest of you," Fiona carefully pointed out. Charlie just harrumphed. "And wasn't she jilted by her boyfriend, too?"

Charlie nodded. Given the state of the Parkinsons' coffers, Malfoy'd dropped her like a hot potato, and begun squiring one of the Greengrass girls around- the Greengrasses being one of the pureblood families who'd finished the war smelling like roses.

"She's probably lashing out, you know. I just feel sorry for her," Fiona repeated. "And I'm surprised at you, Charlie Weasley. You usually have any female within ten feet of you wrapped around your little finger." This last was said with a deprecating little laugh, as the bar maid included herself in this group. "Is she hideous?"

Parkinson, hideous? Charlie supposed not, although she was... severe. Hair always wrenched back in a tight bun, robes very prim and proper, mouth set into a hard line. Only that little ski-jump of a nose betrayed her, and Merlin help the fool stupid enough to call attention to it. But all of that was neither here nor there. There was no place for Pansy Parkinson on Charlie's list of conquests, and even if there had been, she wasn't the type to be won over by a teasing grin and a hint of dragon-induced scars.

"No," he said firmly. "But I'm a Weasley and it reduces my charm considerably with that one. And I don't want her wrapped around anything of mine. I simply want her to stop being such a bitch."

"Well," said Fiona, shrugging in a way that made her breasts bounce in the most charming fashion, "it's only a week." And then she set about distracting him once again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He was going to kill them. Well, mayhap not, since McGonagall did frown on the murder of students. But he certainly wanted to. They just had to be Gryffindors, didn't they? _It's only a week,_ he told himself. _Only a week._

Sir Cadogan had been defaced, in a most unbecoming fashion. There were additions to his armor that were really not very appropriate for a painting hung in a school. Charlie had come running at the sound of Cadogan's distressed cries, Parkinson on his heels. The painted knight had been yelling and blustering so much that Charlie had only become aware of what the problem was when alerted by a prudish gasp, followed by Parkinson stomping over to the picture to try to pry it from the wall, even though it was nearly as tall as she was. He'd shouldered her out of the way, and questioned the embarrassed and enraged knight about what had happened. Students, he'd said, his hands all aflurry trying to cover up his new bits. Students wearing crimson and gold ties.

Parkinson wheeled on him, her hands on her hips. Her eyes were flashing fire, and Charlie knew what was coming. He decided to cut her off at the pass.

"Not my fault, Parkinson. I'm not their Head of House, and I haven't been a Gryffindor myself in nearly eight years. I _do_ know the likely hiding spots they've scampered off to, so you can come with me and try to catch the damned vandals, or you can waste time venting your ire and probably let them get away with it."

Parkinson's mouth fell open, then closed with a snap. She didn't like that he'd said what he'd said, but Charlie could tell she knew he was right, and although she wasn't being graceful about it, she was conceding. She made a stiff gesture indicating he should lead the way, and with a roll of his eyes, he did.

Sure enough, the gang of Gryffindor lads was hiding behind the tapestry not far from their common room, which actually concealed a rather large nook. It was as though the spot had been put there for hiding miscreants- or kids looking for a place to snog, which was how Charlie had most often put the spot to use- and although that made Charlie really wonder about the castle sometimes, it had been there when he was a student and it was still there now. He let Parkinson have the pleasure of issuing detentions and taking house points before he saw them back to their common room. The kids didn't seem all that repentant, giggling as they climbed back through the portrait hole. Charlie gave strict instructions to the Fat Lady to not allow anyone out until breakfast time.

When he turned back to face Parkinson, she looked remarkably unimpressed. Charlie just sighed, and waited.

"They don't even care," she sniffed.

"Of course not," Charlie said. "They had a grand adventure, and that's all that matters. Didn't Slytherin ever get up to shenanigans just for the sheer glory of telling their classmates what they'd got up to?"

"No, certainly not," Parkinson said, folding her arms over her chest. "We had respect. We were here to learn, and we had been taught proper manners and decorum before we got here, which is something your house is clearly lacking. You know, everyone likes to criticize Slytherin, but we weren't the ones sneaking about, causing trouble, thinking we knew better than the people that set the rules. Nothing has changed; the war might be over but the children are the same, and these Gryffindor are just as disrespectful as ever."

"Parkinson, that's not-"

But she was off and running, ready to harangue him about how Slytherin never got a fair shake and Gryffindor got away with murder, and how Slytherin got dragged through the mud as cowards, while the rule-breaking Gryffindor were lauded as heroes. She even covered how grossly Slytherin had been mistreated by Dumbledore in her first year because he'd tricked them into thinking they'd won the house cup and then changed the banners simply for the sake of drama. On and on she went, her face actually getting quite expressive as she ranted, and Charlie thought she might never stop, but finally she had to pause to take a breath and gather more steam.

"Parkinson!" Charlie barked. "Would you just shut up and listen!"

He meant to tell her that he didn't care about any of that, and that these thirteen year olds with their spray paint certainly didn't care about any of that. He meant to tell her a few key things he'd learnt about Dumbledore. He meant to tell her that he mostly agreed with with her. He meant to do any number of things, but what he ended up doing was cupping that reddened, impassioned face and slamming his mouth down against hers.

He didn't know why he did it, only that it seemed to be the thing to do at the time, and it did shut her up very effectively. And her mouth parted beneath his and his tongue swept in to ravage her and her hands fisted in his shirt and he mussed her prim and prissy hair and he thought that maybe it had been a very good course of action, after all. Then he felt the sharp, stinging pain of her foot connecting with his shin, and he abruptly stopped kissing her.

"How dare you," she hissed, and he opened his mouth, maybe to protest that she'd responded, but he shut it again. She was right. He'd had no business doing that. Only, he couldn't help noticing the messy hair and swollen lips and flushed face were rather fetching on her, and he sort of wanted to do it again. The only thing that stopped him was knowing that next time she'd punish him with something far worse than a kick in the shin.

"I'm sorry. Sorry, Parkinson, that was out of line."

"Too right," she said icily, spinning on her heel. "I'm going to go patrol Slytherin. I don't care what you do."

Well, he'd certainly made a mess of things, he thought, as he watched her walk away, her back stiff and straight.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On Wednesday night, Parkinson suggested separate detail, and Charlie was too chastened to argue. He took the upper half of the castle, while she took the lower, and they met at the end of their shift to compare notes. It was all very formal and polite and businesslike, and, Charlie considered that it was one of the most pleasant conversations he'd ever had with Parkinson.

He'd hated every second of it. He preferred her wrath, because at least there was passion in it; seeing her cold and detached was disconcerting.

Charlie had been replaying the moments leading up to their kiss, and the kiss itself, in his head repeatedly since it had happened. What on earth had possessed him? No matter how much he thought it over, he couldn't make heads nor tails of it. The only thing he was sure of was that he'd liked it, no matter how he felt about the woman. There had been that brief moment, before she'd come to her senses, when she'd been warm and pliant and open. That moment had captured him, for all that he was unable to reconcile it with the Parkinson he'd come to know.

So on Friday, although he'd agreed to separate detail again, he found himself looking for Parkinson an hour or so into their shift. Not talking about what had happened was only making things worse, he'd decided. They needed to clear the air, so he could get back to disliking her and she could get back to yelling at him for the most minor of transgressions. That would be best for everybody involved. Normalcy. He found her in the hall near the Slytherin entrance.

She was humming.

Her fingers traced lightly over the bas-relief that marked the entrance to the Slytherin commons, nimble and long as the worked their way over the stone depiction of two men, facing a dragon. Charlie couldn't make out the song she was humming, although her voice was quite pretty. The whole scene stopped him in his tracks, however. He'd never seen her so soft, so unguarded. She was actually sort of beautiful.

Finally, regretfully, he cleared his throat, and she spun to face him. Any hint of anything soft was gone, her face hard and closed.

"What are you doing, Weasley? I thought you were supposed to be on the upper floors, preventing your Gryffindor miscreants from doing more damage to the historical artifacts contained in this castle?" Her mouth had lifted in a sneer, and Charlie had to remind himself that he'd come to talk to her, not to snark and bicker.

"I wanted to speak with you," he managed through gritted teeth.

"Oh?"

Ah, she was going to make him work for it. Typical.

"About what happened the other night. It seems to've affected our working relationship, such as it was, and while it wasn't exactly nice before, it wasn't so damned odd as it is now, and I, I dunno, I thought maybe we should talk, clear the air, so we can get back to how things were..." He trailed off, confused by the look of amusement that Parkinson seemed unable to quite contain.

"Stop," she said.

"Stop? Stop what?" Charlie demanded.

"Stop while you're ahead."

He simply stared at her, bemused. And then she sighed, rolling her eyes, and stepped closer, reaching up for his face and pulling him down, pressing her mouth against his. This time the kiss wasn't furious; her lips parted under his without any demands on his part, and her tongue slipped deftly past his teeth to slide alongside his. Her hands threaded through his hair, and Charlie found that he was at her mercy even as he kissed her for all he was worth.

All too soon, it was done. Parkinson let go of him and stepped back, looking up at him as if she were examining him critically. "Hmmm."

"Hmmm what?" he asked, his eyes narrowing under her analysing gaze.

"Just hmmm," she said, but her lips twitched in what Charlie would've sworn was a smile. "You're very different from Draco."

"I should hope so," he snapped, but it occurred to him that Malfoy might've been the only other bloke she'd kissed. He tried to tamp down any curiosity he felt as to whether different meant better or worse.

"Yes, well," she said briskly, business-like once more. "That's as may be. You should go patrol. I'll see you at six o'clock."

Her tone didn't brook any argument, and Charlie was so non-plussed by what had just happened that he did what she said, and walked off in something of a daze to go patrol the upper floors. By the time he thought to suggest anything different, Parkinson was out of sight.

At the end of their shift, they again shared the details of the otherwise uneventful night, though Parkinson's lips kept twitching and her eyes had a keen sort of light to them, and it all made Charlie want very much to pull her aside for a private conversation. Unfortunately, they had breakfast and then classes and by the time they were done with dinner, Charlie was so exhausted that he staggered back down to his hut, fell into bed, and fell asleep straightway.

A knock on the door awakened him. He threw the covers off, grumbling, although the light streaming through his windows told him that he'd at least slept through til morning. Pulling on the closest pair of trousers that he had on hand, he rubbed groggily at his eyes and went to answer the door. It was Parkinson, and she looked fresh and well-rested and vaguely amused, and Charlie suddenly felt very aware of his bare feet and lack of a shirt and the way his hair was sort of sticking out all directions.

"Morning, Parkinson," he said, a yawn escaping before he could stop it.

"Pansy," she corrected, stepping inside, although he hadn't invited her to do so.

"Morning, Pansy." His voice was cautious, and he stood back to watch her take in the interior of the hut. He hadn't changed much from how Hagrid had decorated, other than replacing the oversized furniture with something a little more conventional. He waited for Parkinson to say something snotty, but she simply turned to face him, and he realised she was holding out a mug of coffee to him, which he gratefully accepted.

She didn't sit, but she did take a sip from her own mug. She studied him for a moment, and again Charlie felt as if he were being inspected. Finally, she said, "I rather enjoyed kissing you."

Charlie refrained from spluttering his coffee everywhere, and was rather proud of himself. Mildly, as if this were an every day conversation for them, he pointed out, "You kicked me the first time."

"Yes," she nodded. "I did. You caught me off guard, and I was quite angry you'd taken the liberty. When I thought it over, however, I decided it wasn't half bad. A theory I tested again last night. I have not been kissed in a very long time, but it was rather nice. A bit confusing, since I was certain I didn't like you one bit, but there you go."

"Likewise," he said, sipping his coffee. He wasn't sure if he should be flattered or affronted.

Then she did smile, a genuine smile that actually showed her teeth, and he decided he'd go with flattered. Perhaps she might let him kiss her again, and that wouldn't be a bad thing, would it? Not if she was capable of smiling like that.

"The thing is, Charlie," she continued, his name coming out as if she were uncertain of it, "I can't be snogging you throughout the halls of the school every time we're assigned patrol together."

Charlie wasn't so sure of that; he quite like snogging and it sounded like a much more pleasant way to pass the time than her lecturing him for a solid eight hours. But he supposed he saw her point. McGonagall would probably find it highly unprofessional.

"So what do you suggest we do?"

He supposed Parkinson would say he must never kiss her again, or that they should ask to be assigned different partners next time, so he was surprised when she answered, as if it should be clear to him, "We must get it out of our systems."

Was she suggesting what he thought she was suggesting? He set his mug down on the table and peered at her. "Like, completely?"

She nodded.

"Now?"

"If you're amenable," she said, and oh, there was another one of those smiles, bright and impish as it bowed her lips.

Now he nodded, and stepped closer, and Pansy wisely put aside her own mug before he yanked her against him for a hard, searching kiss. While he kissed her, his hands moved upward, finding the pin that held her hair and pulling it loose, finally freeing it from that damnable bun. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, covering his hands, and he ran his fingers through the silky strands, marvelling at how thick and luxurious this hair that she kept hidden away was. He'd thought it would be short, remembering, he supposed, how she'd looked at the final battle, but clearly she'd been growing it all this time since.

When Charlie lifted his mouth, Pansy was laughing, and the difference it made on her was stunning. Like when he'd seen her humming and lost in her own thoughts, she looked beautiful. He kissed her again, quick and hard, and then set his hands to unfastening her robes before she changed her mind. Quickly, she was standing there in her bra and knickers, no shy maiden but fiercely proud and sensual, and Charlie marvelled again at what she'd hidden under those prim robes. He swallowed convulsively as he looked at her, feeling a bit like the fumbling lad he hadn't been in years, and then he pulled her close again, scooping her up and bearing her over to his bed.

When she was laid out against his still-rumpled sheets, he did take the time to admire her, giving her a slow and lazy grin that let her know he liked what he saw. Pale, vibrant skin, a waist his hands could span, hips that flared wide, breasts just large enough to fill his hand. That dark hair fanned out over his pillow, and she looked utterly wanton, and utterly lovely. He joined her on the bed, stealing another exploring kiss before sitting back on his heels and running his hands over her body. He unfastened her bra, which was a lacy little thing that sat at odds with her entirely proper wardrobe, and peeled it reverently away from her. His hands covered her breasts, and he felt that man's pleasure when her nipples responded to his touch, hardening into little peaks that he brushed his thumbs over. Then he followed his hands with his mouth.

Pansy made an indistinct but pleasured noise, and her back arched, bringing his mouth even more contact with her breasts. Her hands slid through his hair, holding him there, and he pressed his hips down against her, driven utterly wild by the abandoned way she responded to him. This wasn't going to be as leisurely as he usually liked his shags to be, but that was all right. He wanted her, and badly.

Charlie stroked his hands down Pansy's sides, feeling that curve inward and flare outward for himself. He made quick work of her knickers, and felt Pansy's hands at the waist of his trousers, unbuttoning his flies and pushing them down. He was bare underneath, having tossed the trousers on in haste, but Pansy didn't seem to mind, her hand quickly encircling him. He groaned at her touch, and decided turnabout was fair play, slipping his hand between her thighs, drawing upward and inward until he found that little bundle of nerves nestled in among the damp curls. Her gasp was rewarding, and he teased her with the pad of his thumb, sinking two fingers inside of her, pleasuring her in that fashion for as long as he could stand it. Besides, he was loathe to give up the wonderful feeling of her small, elegant hand wrapped around him, stroking him into a frenzy.

Eventually he could take it no more, though, and when he slipped his hand away from her, Pansy followed suit, releasing him. He felt fierce pleasure at that; she wanted this as much as he did, and wasn't shy about showing it. He knocked her legs wider with his knees, and as she reached for him, pulling him down for another searing kiss, he plunged inside of her. And oh, god, she felt amazing, no, phenomenal, wet and hot and tight around him. After that, everything was sort of frantic and frenzied, mouths and hands roaming as his hips snapped in a furious rhythm against her. She came loudly, beautifully, thrashing and writhing beneath him, and he followed quickly after, driving into her a final time, crying aloud as his release overtook him.

Sometime later, laying exhausted next to her, his fingers trailing over her flat belly and his lips on her neck, he asked her, "Completely out of your system yet?"

She laughed, a rich and happy sound, and turned her head sideways to catch his lips. "Not even close."

"Ah," he grinned, nipping at her full lower lip, "give me twenty minutes or so, then."

But even twenty minutes and then some later, Pansy declared it was not quite enough. So they continued on like that, and Charlie was inordinately glad it was a Saturday.

A week later, Pansy determined she had not quite gotten him halfway out of her system. A month after that, little had changed. They did manage to control themselves during patrols, but it was only because they knew they could fall into his bed immediately afterward. And when he dared to take Pansy with him to Hogsmeade, Fiona gave him a knowing look, patted his hand, and walked away.

Charlie had to admit that it looked like his mum might get her way in one matter after all. He just might be bringing a girl home for dinner, and if she was a tarty type, she kept it hidden under prim robes and a tight bun, and saved the tartiness for when they were alone. And the girl was very nice. He'd realised that when he'd seen her smile.


End file.
